Suffering

Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. For while we were still weak, at the right
time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us. Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. But more than that, we even boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

This is one of the hardest Scriptures for us (or at least the part of “us” that is “me”). What do you mean suffering results in hope? That can’t be right. I mean, suffering=bad, hope=good. Everyone knows that. Isn’t that how it works? But suffering is a part of life. It doesn’t mean that you did something wrong. It certainly doesn’t mean that God is sitting off somewhere doling out suffering like it’s some sort of giant card game. And, please, DO NOT tell me that God would never give me more than I can handle. (aaaggghhh!) What are we all supposed to get some sort of ration of suffering? No, that’s not the way it happens at all. Suffering just happens. It happens because it is part of life. We do not live as mechanical robots. Suffering is part of the richness and profundity of life. Maybe it’s the downside of having skin, of being created, of being real. We all have needs. Sometimes life is just too much. (And sometimes it’s not enough.) But will all suffer. And where is God? There…there in the midst of the suffering. Suffering reveals the heart of God.

Almost twenty years ago, I had the opportunity to visit Auschwitz, Poland. I expected to be appalled; I expected to be moved; I expected to be saddened at what I would fine. I did not expect to become so personally or spiritually involved. As you walk through the concentration camp, you encounter those things that belonged to the prisoners and victims that were unearthed when the camp was captured–suitcases, eye glasses, books, clothes, artifical limbs, and shoes–lots and lots and lots and lots of shoes–mountains of humanity, all piled up in randomness and namelessness and despair. This is the epitome of suffering. This is humanity at its worst. This is humanity making unthinkable decisions about one another based on the need to be in control, based on the need to be proven right or worthy or acceptable at the expense of others’ lives, based on the assumption that one human is better or more deserving than another. It is something that in this divisive and vitriolic climate, we need to think about, to perhaps revisit what happened in what seems another world but is in THIS century of humanity.

And yet, God CHOSE to be human. God CHOSE to put on skin, temporarily separating the Godself from the Holy Ground that is always a part of us, and enter our vulnerability. God willingly CHOSE to become vulnerable and subject to humanity at its worst. God CHOSE the downside of having skin. Now maybe God was having an off day when that divine decision was made, but I think it was because beneath us all is Holy Ground. God came to this earth and put on skin and walked this earth that we might learn to let go, take off our shoes, and feel the Holy Ground beneath our feet. God CHOSE to be human not so we would learn to be Divine (after all, that is God’s department) but so that we would learn what it means to take off our shoes and feel the earth, feel the sand, feel the rock, feel the Divine Creation that is always with us and know that part of being human is knowing the Divine. Part of being human is being able to feel the earth move precariously beneath your feet, to be vulnerable, to be tangible, to be real, to take on flesh, to put on skin, to be incarnate. Part of being human is making God come alive.

Suffering exists. It always exists. Right now, there are people living in fear in Syria with no place to go. There are young persons in North Korea that have seen what freedom can be and are craving it. (Look at Flash Drives for Freedom. What a cool thing!) There are people in Africa who do not know from where their next meal come. Maybe we could stand a little reframing from Paul too. For us, suffering is a failure; within the vision of God, suffering holds hope for newness. Because in the midst of suffering, just like in the midst of everything else, we find God. God walks with us through it, loving us and holding us, perhaps even revealing a way out of it, if we would only listen, and gives us a glimpse of what is to come. The suffering of the world reveals the heart of God, reveals the holiness that is, if we will only look. It doesn’t explain it; it doesn’t make it easier; it just reminds us that it is not the final chapter. Maybe it’s the downside of having skin, which means that you are human, a child of God, made in the image of God, with so much more ahead.

In this season of Lent, we once again walk toward the Cross, with the drums of discord, still this moment far in the distance, growing louder with each step. This season lasts for forty days. But those forty days do not include the Sundays of Lent. Known as “little Easters”, they are opportunities to glimpse and celebrate the Resurrection even in the midst of darkness. They are reminders that even in this season of Christ’s Passion and Death, their is always a light on the horizon. Resurrection always comes. But it’s not a fix; it’s not a reward for the most powerful; it’s what happens when God’s love is poured into our hearts.

Look back from where we have come. The path was at times an open road of joy. At others a steep and bitter track of stones and pain. How could we know the joy without the suffering? And how could we endure the suffering but that we are warmed and carried on the breast of God? (Archbishop Desmond Tutu)

On this Lenten journey, do not avoid the hard times, but live them, embrace them, make them yours. And find in them hope for the journey.

Like this:

Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us. Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. But more than that, we even boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

This is one of the hardest Scriptures for us (or at least the part of “us” that is “me”). What do you mean suffering results in hope? That can’t be right. I mean, suffering=bad, hope=good. Isn’t that how it works? But suffering is a part of life. It doesn’t mean that you did something wrong. It certainly doesn’t mean that God is sitting off somewhere doling out suffering like it’s some sort of giant card game. And, please, DO NOT tell me that God would never give me more than I can handle. (aaaggghhh!) What are we all supposed to get some sort of ration of suffering? No, that’s not the way it happens at all. Suffering just happens. It happens because it is part of life. We do not live as mechanical robots. Suffering is part of the richness and profundity of life. Maybe it’s the downside of having skin, of being created, of being real. We all have needs. Sometimes life is just too much. (And sometimes it’s not enough.) But will all suffer. And where is God? There…there in the midst of the suffering. Suffering reveals the heart of God.

More than a decade ago, I had the opportunity to visit Auschwitz, Poland. I expected to be appalled; I expected to be moved; I expected to be saddened at what I would fine. I did not expect to become so personally or spiritually involved. As you walk through the concentration camp, you encounter those things that belonged to the prisoners and victims that were unearthed when the camp was captured–suitcases, eye glasses, books, clothes, artifical limbs, and shoes–lots and lots and lots and lots of shoes–mountains of humanity, all piled up in randomness and namelessness and despair. This is the epitome of suffering. This is humanity at its worst. This is humanity making unthinkable decisions about one another based on the need to be in control, based on the need to be proved right or worthy or acceptable at the expense of others’ lives, based on the assumption that one human is better or more deserving than another.

And yet, God CHOSE to be human. God CHOSE to put on skin, temporarily separating the Godself from the Holy Ground that is always a part of us, and enter our vulnerability. God willingly CHOSE to become vulnerable and subject to humanity at its worst. God CHOSE the downside of having skin. But God did this because beneath us all is Holy Ground. God came to this earth and put on skin and walked this earth that we might learn to let go, take off our shoes, and feel the Holy Ground beneath our feet. God CHOSE to be human not so we would learn to be Divine (after all, that is God’s department) but so that we would learn what it means to take off our shoes and feel the earth, feel the sand, feel the rock, feel the Divine Creation that is always with us and know that part of being human is knowing the Divine. Part of being human is being able to feel the earth move precariously beneath your feet, to be vulnerable, to be tangible, to be real, to take on flesh, to put on skin, to be incarnate. Part of being human is making God come alive.

Suffering exists. It always exists. Right now, there is a plane somewhere in the Indian Ocean that appears to have just dropped out of the sky, leaving myriads of friends and relatives who do not dare to grieve or celebrate. There are Ukranian families and children that are living in fear for their safety and for what their world will become. There are people in Africa who do not know from where their next meal come. Maybe we could stand a little reframing from Paul too. For us, suffering is a failure; within the vision of God, suffering holds hope for newness. Because in the midst of suffering, just like in the midst of everything else, we find God. God walks with us through it, loving us and holding us, perhaps even revealing a way out of it, if we would only listen, and gives us a glimpse of what is to come. The suffering of the world reveals the heart of God, reveals the holiness that is, if we will only look. It doesn’t explain it; it doesn’t make it easier; it just reminds us that it is not the final chapter. Maybe it’s the downside of having skin, which means that you are human, a child of God, made in the image of God, with so much more ahead.

In this season of Lent, we once again walk toward the Cross, with the drums of discord, still this moment far in the distance, growing louder with each step. This season lasts for forty days. But those forty days do not include the Sundays of Lent. Known as “little Easters”, they are opportunities to glimpse and celebrate the Resurrection even in the midst of darkness. They are reminders that even in this season of Christ’s Passion and Death, their is always a light on the horizon. Resurrection always comes. But it’s not a fix; it’s not a reward for the most powerful; it’s what happens when God’s love is poured into our hearts.

Look back from where we have come. The path was at times an open road of joy. At others a steep and bitter track of stones and pain. How could we know the joy without the suffering? And how could we endure the suffering but that we are warmed and carried on the breast of God? (Archbishop Desmond Tutu)

On this Lenten journey, do not avoid the hard times, but live them, embrace them, make them yours. And find in them hope for the journey.

Like this:

Scripture Passage: Luke 2: 7And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

The hurt in Mary’s eyes is evident. This is her son. This was the child that she carried in the womb, birthed into the world in the rough hues of that cold desert night shielded only by a stable, or a cave, or a grotto, or something of the like. This was the child that she nurtured and saw grow into a young man. This was the child that she never understood, the one who seemed to choose his own path, the one who even at a young age always seemed to have some sort of incredible innate wisdom. This was the child that would rather sit at the feet of the rabbis, would rather soak in all of the eons of lessons, than play like the other children. This was the young man that had made her so proud, full of compassion and empathy, always thinking of others, always standing up for the poor and the outcast. This was the young man who had more courage than she had ever seen. Where did he get that? She remembers that night long ago in Bethlehem. They almost didn’t get there in time. They almost didn’t have a place. But there he was. Even the first time that she looked into his eyes, she knew. This child was different. Born of her and, yet, not really ever hers. He always seemed to belong to something bigger. But she could pretend. She could think that he was hers. And she could love him more than life itself. And now, today, the pain is almost to great to bear. It looked like this was it. Was it all for naught? After all, she herself had given up so much. What meaning did it have? Why was it ending so soon? It couldn’t be time to give him back–not yet.

This station is another one that is considered “non-canonical”. But we know that Mary was there. Love would put her there. Love would make her want to pick him up and hold him, cradle him like she did that cold Bethlehem night. The station is marked with a relief carved in stone. The church next to it still has the mosaic floor from an earlier Byzantine church that stood on the premises. In the floor is an image of a pair of sandals facing north, supposedly marking the place where Mary stood in suffering silence when she saw her son carried on the cross.

The Mary we know is usually silent. With the exception of that story of the wedding at Cana when she told Jesus to fix the problem with the wine, she is usually depicted as almost stoic. I don’t think stoicism has anything to do with it though. Mary’s grief and pain were real. When Jesus encountered her this one last time, they both knew it. And they both felt Mary’s deep, unending, nurturing love. Perhaps that is what we are to glean from this–that in the midst of one’s grief and pain and unbearable loss is the deepest love imagineable. We see it in Mary and we know that at this moment, this is what God is feeling too. After all, both have given themselves for the world and both are shattered that the world is throwing their love back.

At this point, nothing need be said. The love is evident–the love of Mary, the love of God. It is a love that we must experience–self-giving, suffering, silent–if we are to understand who God is and who God calls us to be. It is the love that we are called to have for one another, a love that in the deepest of grief pulls us up and pulls us through, a love that would compel us to stand up for another, a love that, finally, creates room, a love that is of God.

So, in this Lenten season, let us, finally, learn to love one another.

We love this story. (And they must have loved it in the first century because the writers of all four gospels chose to include it their unique account of the Good News of Jesus Christ.) Yes, we like the notion of Jesus providing everything we need, bursting in just when we are at the end of our ropes, just when we need help the most, and fixing the ails of our life (or at least feeding us lunch!).

But notice (don’t you hate that…yes, I’m about to ruin your image of super-hero Jesus pulling lunch out of a hat or whatever we thought he did!) that the story never says that the boy’s lunch was the ONLY food there. Perhaps there were some people holding back what they had brought, afraid to offer it for community consumption because, after all, what if they ran out? What if they needed it tomorrow or the next day or after they retire? So, perhaps the miracle lies not in some sort of image of Jesus creating something from nothing but rather in the little boy himself. He was first, freely offering what he had to Jesus and the Disciples to do whatever they needed to do with it. Now, note what was in the little boy’s lunch–barley bread and fish. Barley is a very inexpensive and somewhat “unglamourous” grain and fish were plentiful. After all, they were right next to this huge lake. (Just to get it in your head, the “Sea” of Galilee is actually a huge lake.) In other words, this was the lunch of the poor. The little boy was more than likely not from a family of means. Perhaps his mom had lovingly packed all they had into his lunch so that her son could have this experience of seeing this great man Jesus of whom they had only heard. But before that ever happened, the little boy stood and offered everything he had.

And, then, well you know how it goes. The person next to him saw what he had done, thinking that no longer could he now with a clear conscience keep what he had brought tucked away. And then the person next to that person saw him offer what he had. It went on and on, a veritable Spirit moving through the crowd. The message is right. It WAS a miracle! And when they had finished eating, they realized that it wasn’t that there was enough for all. There was more! There were leftovers that were then gathered into baskets. Maybe they were for later. Maybe they were for those who needed it. Or maybe they were offered as holy doggie bags to remind us that God always gives us way more than we really need.

So what about those of us who feel that we need to be prepared for the next storm that is coming around the bend? Well, keep reading. The passage goes on to say that the disciples started across the lake in the darkness. And, sure enough, the storm began to rage–blowing winds, crashing waves, beating sheets of rain bearing down upon them. Wouldn’t you know? See, this is what we were afraid of! But, there is Jesus. “Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.” What is interesting is that the account never says that Jesus calmed the storm. Jesus calmed the disciples. Jesus reminded the disciples that no matter what, no matter how hungry or unprepared they are, no matter what storms come up unexpectedly, they are not alone. It is truly a story of extraordinary abundance.

I was going to write today on the David and Bathsheeba story but I got up early this morning to get a drink of water. And standing at the window in my kitchen, I saw the words on a plaque I have on the window sill: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” (I looked it up and the quote is attributed to Vivian Green.) It’s a great thought. Jesus is not a super hero that performs unexplainable miracles or plucks us out of the storms of life. Jesus is much more. When the storms come, when the winds rage, and when we just think we just don’t have enough for what’s coming, God invites us to dance, holding us until we find the rhythm that is deep within us and know the steps ourselves.

So, keep dancing!

Grace and Peace,

Shelli

For those of you who are reading this through the St. Paul’s ESPACE link, welcome! And for those who get this as a “blog” email, yes, I’m finally back! I’m going to try to maybe do this 2-3 times a week. Keep on me! 🙂 Shelli

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Lectionary Passage: John 12: 20-33:Now among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” Philip went and told Andrew; then Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus. Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor. “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.” The crowd standing there heard it and said that it was thunder. Others said, “An angel has spoken to him.”30Jesus answered, “This voice has come for your sake, not for mine. Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die.

You can tell it’s getting closer. As we move through these last weeks of Lent, the time seems to increase to warp speed. It is almost more than we can take. I mean, wasn’t it just a few months ago that we were talking about stars and the birth of a child? Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago that we were following Jesus around Galilee as he built his ministry, as he spread the first real notion of hope that we had ever seen? And now the talk turns to touble and death. What are we to do with that? And what is this thing about wheat again?

First, the wheat must die so that it can grow and bear more fruit.This is sort of confusing if you do not know what wheat is.Wheat is what is called a caryopsis, meaning that the outer seed and the inner fruit are connected.The seed essentially has to die so that the fruit can emerge.If you were to dig around and uproot a stalk of wheat , there is no seed.It is dead and gone.The grain must, in essence, allow itself to be changed.What this tells us in that in order for something new to happen, in order for a “new” or “renewed” creation to come about, we must allow ourselves to be changed.

So what Jesus is trying to tell us here is that if we do everything in our power to protect our lives the way they are—if we successfully thwart change, avoid conflict, prevent pain—then at the end we will find that we have no life at all.So why, then, is death so hard for us to talk about, so hard for us to deal with in our life?In fact, we do everything that we can to postpone it or avoid it altogether.So maybe that’s why the cross bothers us so much if we really think about it.Oh, we Christians can focus on the Resurrection and just let the cross somehow disappear into the background, covered in Easter lilies.But then we have forgotten part of the story.We have forgotten that God does not leave us to our own devices, does not leave us until we have “figured it out”, does not wait in the wings until we have covered it all up with Easter lilies.God is there, in the suffering, in the heartache and despair.And God in Christ, there on the cross, bloodied and writhing in pain, is there not in our place but for us and with us.

Whether you believe that God sent Jesus to die, or that human fear and preoccupation with the self put Jesus to death, or whether you think the whole thing was some sort of colossal misunderstanding…the point of the cross is that God took the most horrific, the most violent, the worst that the world and humanity could offer and recreated it into life.And through it, everything—even sin, evil, and suffering is redefined in the image of God.By absorbing himself into the worst of the world and refusing to back away from it, Jesus made sure that it was all put to death with him.By dying unto himself, he created life that will never be defeated.And in the same way, we, too, are baptized into Jesus’ death and then rise to new life.

Yes, in these weeks we turn to death. It is the way that we turn to life. And life is the whole reason we started talking about stars and the birth of a baby anyway, right? After all, without the cross, I think the manger is just a feed trough. All of life makes sense in light of the end. Brazilian Catholic Archbishop Dom Helder Camera once said “why fear the dark? How can we help but love it when it is the darkness that brings the stars to us? What’s more: who does not know that it is on the darkest nights that the stars acquire their greatest splendor?”

So, on this twenty-seventh day of Lenten observance, think about what the cross means to you. What does the cross call you to do? Who does the cross call you to be?

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Lectionary Passage: Mark 8: 31-34 (35-38):Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.

We want to be safe. We want everything to turn out alright. We want some minimal guarantee of what is going to happen in our life. We want safe travels on this journey. But that was never part of the promise.

We’re just like Peter. Sure, Peter got that Jesus was the Messiah.He knew the words.He had been taught the meaning probably from his childhood.He knew that that was what they had been expecting all along—someone to be in control, someone to fix things, someone to make it all turn out like they wanted it to turn out.And now Jesus was telling them that the way they had thought it would all turn out was not to be, that instead this Messiah, this one who was supposed to make everything right, was to be rejected and would endure great suffering.“No, this can’t be,” yelled Peter.This cannot happen.We have things to accomplish.We are not done.This ministry is important. (To whom?) It cannot go away.You have to fix this. You have to fix this now!

Now, contrary to the way our version of the Scriptures interprets it, I don’t think Jesus was accusing Peter of being evil or Satan or anything like that. I doubt that Jesus would have employed our semi-modern notion of an anthropomorphic view of evil. More than likely, this was Jesus’ way of reprimanding Peter for getting hung up on the values of this world, getting hung up on our very human desire to save ourselves and the way we envision our lives to be, to fix things.But what God had in store was something more than playing it safe.I think that Peter, like us, intellectually knew that.We know that God is bigger and more incredible than anything that we can imagine.And yet, that’s hard to take.We still sort of want God to fix things.We still sort of want God to lead us to victory, to lead us to being the winning team. Face it, we sort of still want Super Jesus. And, of course, Peter loved Jesus. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility of Jesus suffering, of Jesus dying.

Safety can be a good thing. I would advocate that we all wear seat belts. I think having regulations for how children are to ride in vehicles is a prudent practice. (In fact, I’m not real impressed when I see an unrestrained dog in the back of a pick-up!) And I lock my doors at night. But our need to be safe can also paralyze us. It can prevent us from moving forward on this journey as we settle for taking cover from the darkness rather than journeying toward the light. And in our search for safety, for someone to save us, what do we do with a crucified Savior? What do we do with the cross? Well, let’s be honest, most of us clean it up, put it in the front of the sanctuary, and, sadly, go on with the security of our lives. So, what does it mean “take up your cross and follow”? I think it means that sometimes faith is hard; sometimes faith is risky; in fact, sometimes faith is downright dangerous.

In all probability, none of us will be physically crucified for our faith. But it doesn’t mean that we should clean it up and put it out for display either. Sometimes our journey will take us through waters that are a little too deep and torrential; sometimes we will find ourselves bogged down by mud; and sometimes faith takes us to the edge of a cliff where we are forced to precariously balance ourselves until we find the way down. The promise was not that it would be safe; the promise was that there was something more than we could ever imagine and that we would never journey alone. And along the way, we encounter a Savior that will save us from ourselves.

So, continuing with our act of giving up so that we can take on, on this ninth day of Lent, give up that thing in your life that is keeping you safe and secure on this journey of faith. Begin to move forward into what God has promised for you.

Grace and Peace on this Lenten Journey,

Shelli

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Lectionary Text: 1 Peter 1: 3-9Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who are being protected by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith—being more precious than gold that, though perishable, is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy, for you are receiving the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

There’s lots of “Easter” language in this text–new birth, living hope, resurrection. It speaks of all those things for which we hope, for which we look. But, truth be told, none of it can really be proven, now can it? The writer of this letter obviously has a strong faith, a faith that looks toward what will come, toward what we have been promised. And yet when you’re hurting in the deepest part of you, what good does that really do? Perhaps this doesn’t speak well for my level of faith, but it drives me positively crazy when someone responds to grief or deep despair by saying, “just put your trust in God and God will take care of it”, or “God never gives us more than we can handle.”, or (even worse!) “it’s God’s will”. But you and I both know that most of the time you get up the next morning and it’s just as bad or worse. And these sorts of comments are not only unhelpful; I think they’re just downright mean and often harmful. The truth is, it IS my faith that gets me through times like this–not faith that God will fix it or make it go back to the way it was but faith in a God that is there with me every step of the way, faith in a God that will see me through the end and on to the next beginning.

This letter was first written to people who were going through some really tough times, possibly people who were suffering because they WERE who they were. They are not being promised a quick fix. In fact, there’s a possibility that this is just not going to get any better at all. Faith is not believing that God will fix it; faith is believing that there is always something more, something beyond what we know, something beyond even this.

Come to think of it, there are lots of great stories that don’t really end the way that you would have rather seen them end. I remember reading “Little Women” as a child. In fact, it may have been the first time that I really dealt with heartache and death. I liked the first part of the story much better when all four girls were there. After Beth died, no one and nothing was the same. I finished it and to this day, I love the story, but I just remember feeling so sad. It’s not the only story like that–“Titanic”, “Anne Frank”, “Gone With the Wind”…the list goes on. The point is that sometimes (I would say possibly most of the time) life just doesn’t go the way that you would have written it given the chance. Prince Charming almost never shows up with a glass slipper and whisks you away to material riches and a life without care. Suffering is part of life. We will all suffer, we will all grieve, we will all have something that doesn’t go as planned. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be real, we wouldn’t be human. (I guess we’d be characters in one of those Harlequin Romances or something!)

Faith is not about the story going well; it’s about knowing that there’s an epilogue–the “word after the word”. No, epilogues are generally not part of the actual story. Their purpose is to resolve the plot, bring it together, make it once and for all make sense. I think that’s what faith is. It’s not believing that God will fix the story but rather believing that God has already written the epilogue. In the meantime, go ahead and finish the story. I think this one’s going to get better in the end!